


Haute and Bothered

by Kylenne



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cute, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 14:11:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5873518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kylenne/pseuds/Kylenne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vivienne oversees Bull's final fitting with the tailors for a Winter Palace ensemble, and delights in his bashfulness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haute and Bothered

Vivienne would never accept anything less than perfection. 

Nor would the famed imperial couturier Chretien Bélanger, who was known to be as reclusive as he was singularly brilliant, and famously discerning in his choice of clientele. His magnificent designs were worn by no less than Empress Celene herself, the wealthiest scions of the great houses of Orlais, and those favored greatly by the imperial court–none less. 

And it was rarer still that the reclusive artist should venture forth from his famed atelier secluded among Val Royeaux’s most elegantly appointed demesnes--the Summer Bazaar was too common for him--for anyone less than the Empress herself. Even his carefully selected clientele were summoned at his will, and none permitted within his walls without gilded invitation. Only the Empress herself commanded his attention, these days; others were attended by his impeccably skilled apprentices. 

For Madame Vivienne, however, his fondest muse, Bélanger himself ascended the steep road winding high into Orlais’ grandest peaks to Skyhold itself, and without hesitation. Such was her clout, still, even after sending rippling shockwaves of scandal throughout Orlesian society by leaving the Empress’ side to join the fledgling Inquisition.   

But Vivienne was still in Celene’s favor. Muse or not, Bélanger would not have entertained her business, much less come to Skyhold, had she been otherwise. The wily old couturier had made his fame on boldness as much as creative genius, but he was shrewd, and played The Game well. Vivienne had lured him to Skyhold, to garb the Inquisitors and their inner circle for the social event of the season in Halamshiral, with the promise of novelty and challenge, something no Orlesian master could truly resist.

No artist of his stature would be able to resist such a challenge, suitably adorning clientele of such diverse and exotic backgrounds: foreign gentry and even royalty, knights and Grey Wardens, the mysterious and the notorious. It was a veritable master stroke on Vivienne’s part securing his services, for every eye in Val Royeaux had surely been trained on the caravan of tailors and seamstresses bearing that famous Bélanger heraldry, rolling upon the road to Skyhold. In this, the die was cast before Khedira or any of their compatriots set foot in the Winter Palace. Vivienne had commissioned the most exclusive couturier in Orlais to garb her and her order; such was the Inquisition’s power and prestige, and all would know it. 

That morning, the couturier’s greatest challenge stood in the center of Vivienne’s airy salon, shuffling his polished boots upon a priceless Nevarran carpet like a fidgeting schoolboy. He was coiled tighter than a spring, with his massive arms held out awkwardly as a bevy of Bélanger’s apprentices stood on stepstools making a slew of adjustments to the fit of his garments on her orders. Here, a hem lifted an inch or two. There, a stitch removed.

Vivienne watched them at work intently; the sight was positively ridiculous, like a flock of excitable songbirds flitting about a tree. And not for the first time, it amused her the way he shrunk before her penetrating gaze, when their eyes met. There he stood, a mighty Ben-Hassrath of the qunari, a brash and bawdy mercenary, wilting like a night-blooming flower in the light of her blazing sun. It was far more charming to her than all his posturing, this manner of vulnerability. 

It helped that the Iron Bull cut an absolutely magnificent figure in Bélanger’s design. He was adorned in a rich mantle of magnificent silk brocade from Seheron, in a hue of deepest midnight, with fine gold embroidered trim. His trousers were tight fitting, made of the same midnight silk and wide at the waist, narrowing quickly to flatter the contours of his shapely calves. There was, however, no shirt; the robe was open, gathered at his broad shoulders, and left his powerfully muscled arms bare. It was daring, of course, and just this side of risqué in the amount of dusky skin exposed, but not so much to be vulgar. Still, he looked exquisite. Bélanger initially designed it to be a far looser fit, but Vivienne clashed with him, believing it made Bull look too much like a walking tent. The tailors were taking it in, as she observed their careful work, adjusting the enormous belt sash to cinch it tighter, with only a slight billow of fabric down his exposed torso. And the new fit flattered his every muscle and curve, Maker help him. Even the famously composed Vivienne had to remember to breathe, gazing upon him so adorned. 

She’d even commissioned him a new leg brace to match his formal wear; it was gilded steel, with intricate etchings of a draconic motif, to match the subtle indigo pattern woven into the robe, in a softer echo of the fierce tattoos inked into his shoulder and arm. The court would expect Cassandra to be adorned in dragons, as a scion of House Pentaghast and notorious slayer of the beasts, not a qunari; these bored, idle aristocrats were not so learned as a rule to know of the qunari’s cultural affinity for them. But some few would, educated at the University, and they would see the meaning of it even if their dimmer peers did not. It would be unexpected, and it would intrigue them, precisely as Vivienne desired. 

In all, the ensemble gave precisely the effect she wanted: bold but sophisticated, tailored finery fit for a qunari warrior who counted himself an equal among such lofty personages as the Seeress of Rivain, the Queen of Ferelden, and the Princess Consort of Starkhaven. He would require a touch of detail with the proper accessories, of course; burnished cuffs, a touch of kajal about his eyes, perhaps a simple pendant to balance the stark canvas of his considerable décolletage, and a simple gold chain for his waxed horns. But this would do, and do well indeed. 

That is, it would, if the fellow did not slouch quite so much. 

“Do stand up straight, dear,” Vivienne said offhandedly. 

“Yes ma'am,” Bull replied, and readily complied with his usual obedience.  

She smiled sweetly at him, deeply amused. “Good man. You’ve enough scars, and I’d rather you not become a pincushion.” Vivienne paused, eyeing the tailors, and then let her gaze fall back upon Bull, and the beads of sweat gathering at his brow, the nervous scrunch of his nose. 

“I believe that will be all, my dears. I must ask you to leave us, but know that we find your work to be exceptional. I shall commend it to Monsieur Bélanger,” she announced. 

The tailors beamed, and packed up the tools of their trade with quiet efficiency, bowing to take their leave and see to the rest of their clientele at Skyhold, under the watchful direction of their master.  

Vivienne rose from her couch, and crossed the short distance between her and Bull, appraising him with a critical eye, and a delicately lacquered fingernail rested upon her chin. She circled him, examining the graceful draping of the fabric and the way it fell from his shoulders, the harmony of the print and his tattoos--and the sheer hunger for approval in his expression, when she looked up into his eyes. 

“Does it look alright?” Bull asked, his gaze darting to the floor. He chuckled a bit nervously. “It doesn’t make my ass too big?" 

"It looks more than alright, love,” Vivienne replied, smoothing her hands down his bare arms, secretly delighting in the gooseflesh that raised beneath her touch. “And it is flattering in every conceivable way, don’t you mind. Do you not care for it?" 

"No! It’s not that,” Bull said a bit hastily. “I wasn’t expecting anything like this, is all." 

Vivienne’s rich laughter made him avert his eyes again in embarrassment, and she simply shook her head. "What on earth were you expecting, my dear? A fine Orlesian doublet or suit in a style designed for someone far smaller, bright red and ill-fitting like some ghastly nutcracker’s uniform? Did you expect me to make a mockery of you, and by extension this Inquisition? Don’t be daft." 

Bull snorted at her, smirking. "I’d have thought you’d have me looking like one of your masked lords in their fancy pantaloons. It'd make me more presentable to all your highborn friends, eh?" 

Vivienne slipped her arms down and around his waist, resting on his belt, and stared up at him with gravity in her expression, all trace of sensual teasing gone. "I’d not have you trussed like an overstuffed popinjay, in some grotesque parody of Orlesian noblesse. You would be humiliated, and I would never want that--it would be grossly unfair to you, and does nothing to further our cause in the imperial court.” She idly caressed the silk in her hands as she gazed at him. “You must understand something, love. For a great many of these sheltered peers of the empire, you shall be the first qunari they will have ever met. They will view you as little more than a savage, a curiosity at best. And I would not dress you to encourage such a view. If I were to adorn you in Orlesian attire, they would only see you as a tame pet, molded in my image. And that is not how you should be seen, because that is not who you are, darling." 

"And how exactly do you see me, Madame?” Bull asked, his deep voice quivering ever so slightly when he did. “In this sort of attire?" 

She smiled up at him, pulling away to eye him appraisingly. "I see a warrior of unparalleled cunning, of whom his people should be proud. One who perhaps does not bathe quite as often as I would like, but nonetheless, a man who stands of his own accord, brace or no. One who is honorable despite his ribald nature and utter lack of propriety. One who I may even dance with in public, given enough Montsimmard red in my chalice. I see the Iron Bull, a man of which _I_ could be proud." 

"Well, that’s a fine sight indeed, Madame,” Bull replied, with one of his lopsided grins, flashing teeth. “Maybe you ought to grease me up a little though, until I glisten. Wouldn’t want to look ashy when we dance.”   

Vivienne laughed once more; she simply could not help herself. Truth be told, she couldn’t recall a man who quite made her laugh so much, and perhaps that was the true reason she so adored him. 

“Perhaps, my dear Bull,” she said with great affection, reaching up with outstretched hands; he bent down dutifully, and she took his cheeks into her soft grasp, planting a tender kiss upon his lips. 

Vivienne never settled for anything less than perfection, after all, and the Iron Bull was perfect, in his own rough and tumble way.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to defira85 for the prompt.


End file.
